And Latham continued: “Those lives that were given out there—so unselfishly—surely that cannot be the end—and, if we don’t really die, how can we be certain that the spiritual power—the driving force, that continues to exist, cannot come back and make its existence felt? Oh! I don’t mean in rocking tables, or ringing bells, or showing lights, or in ghostly manifestations at séances.”
“What do you mean, then?” Bransby was half fascinated, half annoyed.
“They might make an impression upon the consciousness of the living.”
But Bransby was unimpressed by that.
“A sort of supernatural telepathy, eh?”
Latham pondered a moment. “I dare say I can explain best by giving you an example.”
“Well?”
“Suppose a man—a man whose every instinct was just and generous—had done another man a great wrong and found it out too late. If his consciousness remained, isn’t it possible—isn’t it probable, that he would try to right that wrong and, since he had cast away all material things, he couldn’t communicate in the old way—yet he’d try—surely he would try——”
“You believe that?” Bransby exclaimed.
“I believe,” Latham said very slowly, “that he’d try—but whether he’d succeed or not—I don’t know.”